Beginnings: Ba'al
by AnnaDruvez
Summary: How the Tok'ra created a monster. Rated 'M' for blood and a psychotic break.


**Disclaimer**

_How many times do I have to say that it's not mine?_

**Note**

_I read a story where Ba'al's human family was killed by a plague the Tok'ra were 'too late' to stop. (I can't remember who wrote it.) I just liked the idea of making them even more responsible for the chaos that he eventually caused._

**Beginnings****: ****Ba****'****al**

He was a tanner and an armorer. Someday, he would forget that. The memories would be buried under years' worth of other skills and information. But, that was how he began.

He was married. She wasn't exceptionally beautiful, but she was his. She chose him and only him. To his mind, that was enough to make her exquisite. She made the best bread in the village. He never forgot her.

She had borne him three sons and two daughters. Of the five, only three were alive now. Their survival rate was better than average, since their father was skilled in a trade and their food not as dependent on the whims of wild herds and their own ability to gather or grow. They rarely went without.

He seldom used cotton or linen in their clothes. He was a more than decent leather worker. Their outfits were functional, but exquisitely designed. Hand tooled scenes frolicked about hem, neck and cuff. For the children it was only the most carefully worked hides. He and his wife could stand the rougher stuff more easily.

He never forgot the children, either. Neither their names nor faces have escaped him, as he would always mourn them.

They knew something was wrong when there was fire in the sky. The fledgling Tok'ra rebellion was fighting for it's life over their world. None of the natives knew that they were seeing an epic battle, but they_ were_ afraid. They ran. They were too late.

He didn't know what the monstrosity was when it fell from the sky. It was a pyramidal temple of death, made from fire and metal. The members of the crew were killed on impact. So were most of the local residents. He was not so lucky.

In the confusion he had become separated from his children and his mate. Turning, he cried out for them. Thinking them lost behind him, he turned back to the village to search. The return saved his life, for a time.

The ship crashed behind him and he was thrown to the ground. Shrapnel pierced his body in so many places that he could not hope to survive for long. The wounds were small, but deep. Arteries and veins burst forth with blood and soaked the ground beneath him. The sky – already darker than it should be at midday – darkened further in his eyes.

In the wreckage, there was the sound of shattering glass and flowing liquid. The Tok'ra ship had been carrying almost a hundred symbiotes. They were gifted by Egeria and being hidden by the rebellion in hopes that they would mature into true Tok'ra. They would not survive.

Well, one would.

The speedily flowing liquid set it down and it lifted it's almost still-larval head. There was no host. No one to claim it and for it to claim. Pain wracked the immature body as it cast out its senses in hope of shelter. At the very least, a river would be helpful.

Nothing... Wait.

Faster than the eye could follow, the symbiote was across the ground and on top of the dying man. He was face down and unconscious. He would not be able to consent. But, it could heal him and – when able to change hosts – it would do so.

Decision made, it was inside and curling around his spine. The effects were slow to take hold, but the blood stopped gushing. Bone and flesh knit back together. The healing was a natural process, just sped up to a far greater speed than the human body was normally capable of inspiring.

The symbiote reached into the mind of its new host to communicate. Memories flashed back and forth between the sluggish human mind and Tok'ra. Moments later, the host body was standing and being guided by the symbiote's will. The body was healed enough to sustain a search, and would only improve as time went by.

They looked for what seemed like days. Finally, it was when they were moving past the crash that they saw her. His youngest daughter had been neatly decapitated by a large piece of metal. After that it was easy to find the others. It was not so easy to do what he must as he mourned. He was digging their graves when the ship landed.

Like the one that had crashed, his Tok'ra identified this one as one of theirs. He turned to face them and acknowledged their presence with somewhat more reserve than they showed him. Oh, the joy on their faces to see that one of the young had survived! They must inform the others immediately, of course. Not even the slightest glance or barest bit of sympathy was offered for the dead child lying beside him in the dirt.

His child. Now, emotionally, his symbiote's child.

He and his symbiote were horrified by their lack of compassion until they examined the encoded genetic memories regarding the humans. Then the symbiote couldn't bring itself to feel _any _kinship with the creatures in front of it. The Tok'ra were not as different as they might proclaim - they didn't care that they humans were dying. It was... collateral damage.

Every dead human was one less that had to worry about Goa'uld enslavement. Sure, they wanted to save them all. That was impossible, though. So, best to just move past it. After all, the humans breed like rabbits and will always make more.

His rage at their death's became his symbiote's rage. His symbiote's fury at the callous behavior became the host's fury._ How could they? __How __**dare**__ they?_

In that instant, both symbiote and man chose their path. The human resolved that he had died in the crash and the symbiote agreed that it had as well. Their birth names no longer fit them. As one, they chose a name. It was a strong name, meaning 'lord' or 'master' in the host's native tongue. Their blending into one mind had completed in record time.

His human life had taught him the value of knowing weaknesses. They were a bad thing in armor, unless that armor belonged to your adversary. Their genetic memory taught them everything handed down by their parasitic/symbiotic line. He slipped into the small transport with his two friendly guides. They took him to the single ship waiting in the atmosphere.

That afternoon, he was welcomed like a king.

He was no blacksmith, but a tanner had more muscle than a mere tailor. Stretching leather on drying racks required large amounts of physical exertion, as did forming plates, rivets and rings of metal into bronze armor. The new-fledged Ba'al had the strength of the Tok'ra and the Goa'uld running through his veins and the natural strength of the human besides that. A single flash of his eyes was the only warning that any of them received. It was not enough, even though he decided to forego weapons and killed them with his bare hands.

They died like vermin that night – for that is what they were to him.

Standing over the bodies of the dead Tok'ra, he acknowledged the simple truth. There was no difference. They were all the same. He would not be a hypocrite, though he was now supposedly superior to a human. Both sides believed that. He was quickly coming to believe that. Better not to be a Tok'ra, however.

At least Goa'uld wore their malevolence openly.

He strode confidently to the bridge, pausing only to disintegrate the dead bodies as he passed them. It was the fastest way to clean up the majority of the mess. He wouldn't waste the time with either a proper burial or carrying them to be ejected into space. They didn't deserve it.

He settled on his new command chair and pulled up the ship's built-in manual. It was time to learn how to fly his new vessel. He was on the fifth chapter before he realized he suddenly knew how to read. He dismissed the realization with a shrug and kept going.

By morning, he was flying the ship to a nearby planet to steal larval Goa'uld. His next stop would be to a slave market. All rising Lords needed their Jaffa, and he was no exception. Thankfully, his parasite remembered all the information hoarded by its Goa'uld grandparent. Egeria's teachings were discarded as propaganda.

Time would pass and his rage would cool, but not abate. No doubt, the ice he constantly felt stabbing in his chest contributed to this colder state of mind. The Tok'ra would call him pragmatic, intelligent, wicked, vicious. They would lay bounty after bounty on his head. Yet, they would never realize that they had created him.

Ba'al was the new name to inspire fear in the populace.


End file.
